This summer, our Faith and Film series is all about superheroes. I was never a huge fan of superheroes growing up. I liked Superman and Batman nominally, sported a pair of Wonder Woman Underoos as a kid, but in general wasn’t really into superheroes and certainly not into comic books. But a few years ago, I stumbled into the film, The Avengers, and found myself curious about the back stories of all these superheroes. That began a deep dive into multiple films, many of which you can see this summer. The first one, Captain America, is a classic story of the little guy overcoming. Steve Rogers, a literal little guy with a bad case of asthma, wants to enlist in the US Army during World War II so badly, but his health and height disqualify him. Impressed by his tenacity, Steve gets recruited into an experimental program to be medically turned into a Super Soldier. There begins his journey of the little man taking on the big man of Nazi Germany.

Most of us enjoy a good story of the little man overcoming. That’s why the story of David and Goliath is so epic in our memory. This little kid, totally untrained, completely unarmed (with the exception of some rocks and a sling), and certainly the underdog to the 9 feet 6 inches[i] of Goliath, David is the prototypical little man. And yet, with the entire Philistine army staring them down, with a giant taunting them for forty days, and with the ominous threat of defeat, no one else is willing to step forward. The giant, covered in over 126 pounds of armor, and holding huge weapons like the spear whose iron head weighs fifteen pounds[ii], utilizes his own brand of psychological warfare.[iii] In the end, that dry river bed between the two armies is not just a valley of separation, but a “chasm of fear.”[iv] And yet, somehow, the teenage shepherd boy steps forward to fight – the little man, the underdog, makes his move.

But unlike a typical underdog, David does not need science, or a lucky break, or some trick. What David needs has nothing to do with him. Instead, what he needs is God. No one in the Israeli camp has mentioned God at this point in the story. Saul has tried to overcome the chasm of fear with the promise of riches and even his own daughter’s hand in marriage. And yet, the entire army of Israel can only see how mismatched they would be against the ultimate warrior. But David sees things differently. Having fought lions and bears to save his sheep, David knows he can fight Goliath too. But not because he is a mighty warrior – but because Yahweh delivered David then too. Even Saul, God’s formerly appointed king, has forgotten God. But not David. David is first to speak Yahweh’s name in almost forty verses of text.[v] When David faces Goliath, he invokes God’s name, recalling with the name the entire memory of Yahweh’s deliverances of Israel in the past. David knows that he does not need the conventions of human warfare, but only the God of Israel.[vi]

This week, I have been thinking what a ridiculous sermon that is: all we need is God. If all we needed was God, we wouldn’t be in such a political mess, totally unable to compromise, hear each other, and work for the common good. If all we needed was God, that cancer diagnosis, that lost job, that lost pregnancy, or that lost relationship would not have felt so devastating. If all we needed was God, we would have figured out a way to both secure our borders and humanely treat those fleeing injustice and seeking asylum. In saying all we need is God, we sound like a bunch of hippies singing the great Beatles song, “All You Need is Love.” As modern pragmatists, we know better – we know letting go and letting God is what you say – but not what you do.

So how do we turn ourselves from being skeptics, cynics, and dispassionates to seeing all we need is God? Well, first we have to define a few things. What is happening in David’s story should not be a surprise. If you remember a few weeks ago, when the people broke their longstanding covenant with God, asking for a king like the other nations, God gave them Saul. And Saul was just that – like the other nations, fighting battles with weapons of other nations. So when David offers to fight, Saul does what a conventional leader would do – arm David with the conventions of war. He tries to weigh down David with his armor, hoping against hope that there might be a modicum of protection against the Philistine. Saul is a ruler like the other nations have. The contrast between Saul and David then becomes a contrast between trusting conventional means and the means of God.[vii] Saul has become ruled by fear instead of faith.

The way we pull ourselves out of being skeptical, cynical, or dispassionate is not by rallying behind the idea that we are the little man – the underdog David or Captain America, just waiting to be empowered by God. The way we put to bed our skepticism, cynical thoughts, or dispassionate feelings about all the things in life overwhelming us is to recall the faithfulness of God. When David says, “All you need is love,” he does not mean all you need is people giving hugs to one another. What he means is, all you need is to remember the faithfulness of God – especially when we are not faithful at all! In his speeches to Saul and Goliath, David is recalling the salvation narrative – the stories of God’s faithfulness for generations. His trust is actually pretty bold too, considering the current king Saul’s appointment represents the breaking of covenant between God and the people. But David trusts even a broken covenant can be overcome. David claims his identity as a child of God and knows his identity is all he needs to fight the worst this world has to offer.

This past week, as politics and religion got dragged together in front of camera crews, I slowly began to realize that we are in a David moment. We can keep doing what we have been doing – keeping our faith out of politics, putting politics in a box that we especially do not open on Sundays, or we can start realizing that we can never put our faith in a box. The bond that we have as Episcopalians and especially within the hugely politically diverse community that is Hickory Neck is extremely fragile. Our fragility is why I rarely talk about politics among the community. I value our ability to come to the Eucharistic Table in spite of our difference over just about anything else. But that high value on the common table can come at a cost – the cost is never talking about what being a people of God means – what being a disciple of Christ and being an American means. In order to protect that common table, I have put on 126 pounds of brass armor, and taken up a spear whose head weighs fifteen pounds. Instead, today David invites us to shed the ill-fitting armor, and just walk in the clothes God gave us (and maybe a few stones).

I am not saying once we shed man-made armor we will suddenly know what immigration policies are the best. But what I am saying is until we take on God’s armor, until we recall all those times when God has delivered us, when God has turned chasms of fear into paths of faithfulness, until we remember that we have a distinct identity as children of God and disciples of Christ, we will not be able to take on the Goliath issues of our day. Stripping down to David-like clothing, we are able sit down comfortably, to see each other more honestly, to be in relationship more authentically, to gather at this table – not just trying to avoid banging our heavy armor into each other, barely able to make eye contact because of our heavy helmets, but actually brushing the skin of elbows with one another, looking deeply into the eyes of the chalice bearer serving you Christ’s blood, and offering the hand of Christian friendship as we rise from the altar rail together. We can do all those things because God is faithful. We can do all those things because God has delivered us before. We can do all those things because we are Christ’s disciples – and that is what we do through God. We may be underdogs, and we may be vulnerable in a world that is happy to deploy psychological warfare, but we are united and empowered by the love of God. Our invitation is to step trustingly, boldly, confidently into that love. Amen.

One of the hardest parts of being a priest is creating a community in which we can talk about the Gospel of Jesus Christ, hold widely varying political opinions, and yet still gather at the Eucharistic Table – elbow to elbow, as the imperfect, but beloved body of Christ, determined to stay in community. I say that the work is difficult because I have seen how fragile this work really can be. During my priestly formation at seminary, congregations and Dioceses were walking away from that common table over the issue of human sexuality. Although I was proud of what the Episcopal Church did at the time, I also deeply mourned the loss of diversity at the Table – the creation of a more homogenous Church than a Church who was devoted to staying in the tension while honoring the Gospel.

Because of my high value of the uniting force of the Eucharistic Table, my priesthood has taken a slightly different shape than I might have imagined in my early twenties. If you had asked me then about the primary role of the priest, I might have argued the role of prophet – decrying injustice and leading the people of faith to a more just world. But as I aged, and as I served diverse parishes, I began to see the role of prophet is one of many roles, one that needs to be used judiciously so as not to alienate parishioners and create an exclusive community of like-minded people. And so, my priesthood has been marked with great caution around politics. While many of my colleagues will beat the drum for justice, I find myself trying to carefully walk with my diverse congregations as we discern together how to interpret politics in light of the Gospel – not in light of Democrats or Republicans, but in light of the witness of Jesus Christ. That doesn’t mean I don’t have strong political opinions; it just means that I try to take focus off the politician or political issue of the moment and try to create disciples who can see and follow Christ.

That being said, this past week, the issue of what is happening to families seeking asylum on our southern border, and the separation of children from parents as a punitive, purportedly deterring action has shifted my normal practice – not because I changed my mind about politics and the Church, but because two agents of our government utilized Holy Scripture to justify those actions. Here’s the thing: if this were just another issue where we are divided about policy, where we had a debate about the extents to which we value national security over other values, I would have happily encouraged our parishioners to be faithful Christians in dialogue. But when Attorney General Jeff Sessions invoked Holy Scripture to justify separating children from parents, he stepped into my area of authority, leaving me no other option but to speak.

Now I could layout a Biblical defense against the small portion of Romans 13 that Attorney General Sessions quoted, giving you the context of the chapter, giving you the verses immediately following what he quoted as a counter to his argument. I could quote to you chapter and verse for countless other scripture lessons that tell us to love one another, respect the dignity of other human beings, care for the outcast and alien, tend the poor, and honor children. I could also tell you about how that same bit of scripture was used to justify slavery, Nazis, or apartheid in South Africa. But the problem with a scripture quoting war is that no one wins. What is more important is what we know of the canon of Scripture: that our God is a God of love, that Jesus walked the earth showing us how to be agents of love, healing, and grace, and that the Holy Spirit works through us today to keep spreading that love.

Knowing what I know about the Good News of God in Christ, in my baptismal identity as one who seeks and serves Christ in all persons, respecting the dignity of every human being, I cannot stand idly by or be silent when the Holy Scriptures of Christians are being used to justify political actions that are antithetical to our Christian identity. As a priest, I invite you this week, especially when a governmental leader is invoking our faith, to reflect on how the Gospel of Christ is informing your view on this issue. Not as a Republican and not as a Democrat, but as a follower of Christ. Fortunately, prominent politicians on both sides of the aisle seem to be coming to agreement on this issue – a rarity these days – but also an example to Episcopalians who hold a high view of coming to the Eucharistic Table across our differences. I am not saying we need to agree on this – in fact, I suspect we will not. What I am asking is that you live into your identity as a disciple of Christ, as an agent of love, and then respond in conversation, in political advocacy, and in worship as one holding in tension both our American and Christian identities. I support you in this difficult, hard work. I love you as you struggle. I welcome you to the Eucharistic Table.

This week I stumbled on a commercial that was created for an event commemorating Canada’s 150th anniversary. Canada decided to celebrate with “Eat Together” Day this summer. The commercial, which you can see here, features a woman, surrounded by people on their phones wrapped up in their own worlds, not acknowledging each other’s presence. Fed up, she grabs her roommate, her small kitchen table and chairs, and sets dinner out in the hallway of their apartment complex. Slowly, people emerge from the elevator and are invited to sit down. Others hear the commotion, come out of apartments, and add tables, chairs, and food to the impromptu gathering. People of all colors, ethnicities, and ages sit at the table, perhaps hearing and seeing each other for the first time.

Modern technology did not create the longing to be connected. The need has always been there. But technology has shifted how we connect. We can now feel closer to friends in distant places, keep up to date on news stories that were buried or hard to find, and even connect with strangers with whom we have a lot in common. But connecting online sometimes means we are no longer available for the person sitting on the couch next to us, waiting in line at the grocery store, or living next door. In a desire to connect from afar, we sometimes forget to connect nearby.

I am usually one of the last to criticize the ways in which technology helps us connect. In this past week alone, I have been grateful for the ways social media has enabled me to hear when a friend or family member is safe after a storm, to see that good things are still happening to my friends who are living in areas of conflict, and to learn when friends are blessed with new babies, marriages, and milestones. In fact, this weekend Christians around the world will be participating in “Social Media Sunday,” a Sunday to embrace the ways social media helps us connect both virtually and in real time to our neighbors, friends, and strangers.

At Hickory Neck, we will be joining other churches as we celebrate the ways social media brings us together. But part of what we are celebrating this Sunday is how social media takes the connections we make online, and brings them to the table – the Eucharistic table, where, like that video “Eat Together,” people encounter one another in meaningful, vulnerable, and powerful ways. We can certainly be transformed by Social Media, but nothing can replace the taste of communion bread and wine on your tongue, the experience of brushing shoulders at the altar rail with someone very different from you, and the power of God’s blessing that comes at the table. So by all means, post about Hickory Neck Episcopal Church, bringing your cell phones and tablets to church. But also make time and room this week to “Eat Together” at God’s table. I suspect that the connections you make at the Eucharistic Table will enrich the virtual table you have created online.

This weekend, I made a family recipe from my husband’s grandfather. Though Grandpa Gray is no longer with us, somehow, making this recipe for the first time in a long while flooded me with all kinds of memories. You see, Italian Mac was the family’s favorite dish – the ultimate comfort food. One year, I finally asked for the recipe and stayed with Grandpa Gray in the kitchen while he made it. Now, as I look at the words of the recipe, I can hear his beautiful voice in the words. As I crush the herbs as he instructed, I can imagine his worn hands doing the same thing. As our house fills with the aromas of Italian Mac and garlic bread, I can remember the smell of his house. As I sip the red wine that the recipe suggests I pair with the meal, I can recall the comforting sound of his laughter.

Food has a special power. Whenever I have been on mission trips, food has created intimate connection. In Honduras, we all took turns helping the women of the village cook for our team. After ten minutes of attempting to grind corn, we were all laughing at how much stronger the women were than the men who were lifting bricks to build the church. On my second visit to Costa Rica, I wanted to learn how to make the beans and rice we ate regularly. The women were surprised that I was willing to get up early with them and learn. After that morning, our relationship shifted. In Myanmar, giggles and laughter ensued as we tried new foods and our hosts appreciated our boldness.

The same is true of the Eucharist. I have been in churches that use grape juice and a small cube of pasty, crunchy “bread.” I remember the splendor of the sweet Hawaiian bread used at another church. I remember the first time I had real wine at communion, and the way that it burned down my throat, lighting a new fire in me. Whether baked bread, bland wafers, or store-purchased pita bread, each texture and flavor imprints in my mind the church, the community, the spiritual place where I was at the time. Even this weekend, at my goddaughter’s baptism, my own daughter commented on the “yucky” communion bread they had. I would have just said it was dense, but that dense texture will linger in my mind as my reminder of our celebration.

Holy Eucharist is the comfort food of Church. That is why I love being a part of a sacramental church that has Eucharist every Sunday. But the Church offers other comfort foods as well. The pancakes we eat every Shrove Tuesday remind me of years of fellowship and laughter – with communities all over the East Coast. The Brunswick Stew of the Fall Festival at Hickory Neck will always remind me of warmth and community. There are those dishes at every potluck that you search for, knowing the comfort it will bring. And of course, there is the Sunday morning coffee – a staple of hospitality and grace. If you have been missing a sense of community and comfort, I hope you will make your way to Church this week and join us in the feast that not only comforts us, but also strengthens us for the journey. God has given us great work to do – but God has also given us the sustenance we need for the road ahead.

Yesterday morning, I heard a statistic that said 57% of Americans supported Trump’s current immigration ban. The number surprised me because I had watched all weekend as people poured into airports and joined protests against the Executive Order. Perhaps one could argue that the press loves to cover controversy and made the hype feel bigger than the numbers. Regardless, watching the passionate, immediate, and spontaneous emergence of protests, I was surprised to hear such support in opposition to the protestors’ visceral response. As I thought about that contradiction, I realized that there must be some part of the supporters’ position that I do not understand.

I have been thinking a lot this past week about how we are going to move through this tense time as a country. One of the constant refrains I have been hearing is about how we need to listen – really listen – to each other and engage in meaningful conversation with the “other.” I have appreciated articles like this one, that present a point of view without comment, which is one form of really listening. But I have not been sure how I would go about engaging in these conversations myself. But, as God often does, I have found it happening in spite of me.

Last week, Hickory Neck joined another Episcopal Church to host an emergency winter shelter week. I volunteered for an evening shift. During dinner, I found that the conversation between guests and volunteers slipped into a conversation about politics. My initial instinct was to shut the conversation down – worrying I might step on some toes. But I took a deep breath and tried to do what I kept hearing about – listen. The points of view varied widely among our homeless guests and our parishioners. Some points of view were extreme – on both sides! And some of the things we shared I worried would cause alienation between my parishioners and I. But we all stayed at the table.

That’s one of the things I have always loved about the Episcopal Church – we stay at the table. Every week we bring our opposing views, our sinful hearts, and poor hearing to the table, and kneel side-by-side, remember whose we are, and go out into the world renewed and made whole. Our table fellowship at dinner that night was not a Eucharistic meal. But the results were quite similar. As my volunteer shift ended, we shook hands, we looked each other in the eye, and we nodded in mutual respect. Our conversation did not change the world. But hopefully it changed each of us just a little. And that may be the most we can hope for – small changes, made possible by staying at the table. On Sundays, the church shows us how. Our job is to create table opportunities as often as we can throughout the week.

This week I attended our Spring Clergy Day. Our presenters for the day talked to us about addictions and their impact on families and communities. As part of our work, we eventually began to talk about how we honor those in our midst who are struggling with the disease of addiction while staying true to ourselves. One specific issue at hand was how to make room for alcoholics in a Church that serves wine as the blood of Christ. Although our Bishop was pretty clear that he did not want us to step outside of the rubrics (i.e. using grape juice instead of wine/non-alcoholic wine), several clergy members shared practices they had adopted to make parishioners struggling with alcoholism feel incorporated into the community. Ultimately, what we decided was that each parish was different, and the important point was that we talked about the issue, especially soliciting the opinions of those who suffer from the disease.

Meanwhile, this Sunday is Mother’s Day. I have come to dread Mother’s Day because of the many pastoral implications (see my posts here and here). However, I am in a new parish that longs to honor those mothers and mothering-types who have made a healthy impact in their lives. I realized the dilemma of trying to honor mothers while honoring those for whom Mother’s Day is a hard day is not unlike the dilemma of trying to honor years of tradition in the Anglican Church and the pastoral sensitivities needed of a modern priest.

In both of these instances, I find myself mostly concerned about making room for both joy and compassion. How do we honor the struggle of the alcoholic while also honoring the power the taste and tradition of wine has on our spirituality? How do we honor the amazing mother we have in our lives while also honoring the fact that not everyone is so lucky? How do we celebrate the pregnancy or birth of a child in our parish while also honoring how difficult hearing about pregnancy is for someone struggling with infertility?

I am hopeful that we can do both. This Sunday, my parish is going to try to do just that. We had several parishioners who really wanted to honor the mothers in our midst. Holding on to that inner tension, we agreed that every female would be offered a flower and a poem that named the inherent challenge of honoring the amazing mothers in our lives and the ways that this day is hard for many of us. Our hope is that by doing both, we have the opportunity to give thanks and rejoice while also leaving room for grief and intercession. We know there is no perfect way to do both – but we also know that in doing nothing, we sever any opportunity for joy by simply attending to grief. Instead, we are electing to go with the both-and instead of the either-or. Prayers for all of you as you navigate the both-and of this world!

Every once in a while, I am reminded of how bizarre our faith can sound to others. When a child asks a seemingly basic question, or when a non-believing stranger asks me a question that is not easy to explain, I can imagine how strange my responses sound. But having been raised in the faith, the strangeness never bothered me. And if I really was not sure about something, I found myself comfortable with the explanation, “It’s a mystery.”

But lately, I have been barraged by incidents where “It’s a mystery,” just does not cut it! The first instance was the First Holy Communion class I did with David and William a few weeks ago. David and William actually went pretty easy on me. But those classes are always challenging because they do not allow you to simply experience Holy Eucharist – I have to explain Holy Eucharist: from why we process and reverence an instrument of death (the cross had the same purpose as our modern-day electric chair); to what to do when we don’t necessarily believe everything in the Nicene Creed; to why the priest holds out her hands during the Eucharistic prayer. The second instance of “It’s a mystery,” not cutting it was in Bible Study class last week. The group is reading John and John’s rather gory discussion of eating flesh and drinking blood. The group wanted to know what Episcopalians believe about what happens to the bread and wine when the priest consecrates the elements – and how that differs from what other denominations believe. I am fairly certain that if I had told the group that what happens in Eucharist is a mystery, they would not have let me off the hook so easily. The final instance of “It’s a mystery,” not cutting it has been in reading the book, The Year of Living Biblically. In this past week’s assignment, our author, A.J. Jacobs finally makes his way into the New Testament. As an agnostic Jew, the author discusses his fears about trying to live the Bible literally if he cannot get behind the idea of Jesus as the Messiah and the idea of Jesus being both human and divine. As a cynical New Yorker who confesses he has no desire to convert, I am sure my “It’s a mystery,” explanation would get him nowhere.

The challenges of our faith are not limited to worship, Eucharist, and Jesus’ divinity. Today we celebrate yet another bizarre element of our faith – Christ the King Sunday. On this last Sunday of Pentecost, before we enter into the season of Advent, we declare Christ as our King. On the surface, that is not a bizarre claim, I realize. Many communities have kings, and the way we venerate Christ is not unlike the way many kingdoms venerate their kings. Given the familiarity of that image, we might imagine that Christ the King Sunday is about regal processions, festive adornments, and praise-worthy songs. In fact, we will do some of that today. The problem though with Christ the King Sunday is not that Jesus is our King. The problem is what kind of king Jesus is.

We have seen evidence of what kind of king Jesus is. Most famously would be the Palm Sunday procession. Jesus does not ride into Jerusalem on horseback with a sword and an army. No, he rides into town on a borrowed donkey, accompanied by a little crowd – nothing newsworthy really. There are other clues too. There is that time when the Samaritans refuse housing to Jesus and his disciples. The disciples ask, “Lord, do you want us to command fire to come down from heaven and consume them?”[i] But Jesus just rebukes the disciples and keeps on going. Even when Jesus knows Judas is going to betray him, he does not stop Judas. Instead of stopping Judas or outing Judas, Jesus quietly lets Judas leave to betray him.

So we should not be surprised today at the interaction between Pilate and Jesus and why this passage, of all passages, should be selected for Christ the King Sunday. Pilate is perplexed by this man who is being labeled (or more accurately, is being accused of having claimed to be) the king of the Jews. So Pilate asks repeatedly whether Jesus is indeed the king of the Jews. Jesus mockingly explains that if he were a traditional king, his people would be fighting to save him – which they are decidedly not doing. Jesus cryptically further explains that his kingship does not look like kingship in the traditional sense – and in fact, his version of kingship is the only kind of kingship that can save anyone. Violence, retaliation, and revenge will not work.[ii] A battle of wills will not win control. The only thing that will win is sacrifice, selflessness, and ceding. Jesus will not overcome the evil of the world by matching wills with rulers like Pilate. Jesus will only overcome by allowing himself to be overcome. When we really think about Jesus’ kingship, his kingship is yet another bizarre thing about our faith. Who pins their faith on a weak, non-violent, forgiving man?

Given the multiple terrorist attacks we have witnessed over the past week, the irony of Christ the King Sunday is not lost on me. Just this past week, at Lunch Bunch, we were discussing the challenges of engaging in war to stop terrorism verses isolationism. The discussion we had was the same discussion that hundreds of theologians have had for centuries. I have even witnessed top scholars debate the ethics of intervention versus non-violence. We watch Jesus turn the other cheek – in fact, Jesus tells us to turn the other cheek, give away our tunics, go a second mile, give to borrowers, and love our enemies.[iii] But we watched what happened in World War II when we stayed out of the war as long as possible – a genocide happened. And we have seen what sanctions do in foreign countries – though they are non-violent, the brunt of the restrictions hit the poorest of the country. And yet, we are also only one country. We cannot possibly fight every force of evil, have troops in every country, and wage war every time evil emerges.

This is one of those times when I would love to say, “It’s a mystery!” We say that phrase because the answer is beyond our knowing – or because we just do not know the answer. Any kind of guessing about “What Would Jesus Do,” is not likely to get us very far. We know that Jesus does not fight Pilate today, and has no intention of answering evil for evil. But we also know that Jesus is wholly other – the Messiah, the Savior, the sacrifice for our sins. His death is different from our deaths, and the kingdom he brings is both already and not yet.

Despite the fact that I cannot give you answers about what we should do about ISIS, about terrorism, or about violence, what I can tell you is that the ambiguity of Jesus’ identity as Christ the King is actually good news today. Now I know ambiguity does not sound like a gift. But in this instance, I believe ambiguity is where we can put our faith today. Ambiguity is a gift today because ambiguity makes us uncomfortable. Because we do not have definitive answers, we are forced to stay in prayer and keep discerning God’s will in this chaotic world. Because we do not have a king who answers violence for violence (which is quite frankly, a very easy black-and-white formula to replicate), we are forced to contemplate our faith in light of the world. Because we follow Christ the King, we do not get to say, “It’s a mystery,” as an excuse not to wrestle.

As I think about the conversations I have had with David and William, with our Thursday Bible Study Group, and even the conversation I would have with A.J. Jacobs, I realize ambiguity is the most honest, vulnerable, real way we can start any conversation about faith and Jesus Christ. And if we ever want a young person, a non-believer, or even someone wise beyond their years to trust that they can have an authentic, meaningful conversation with us about faith, then we have to be willing to step into the ambiguity of faith. One of Jacobs’ advisors talks about the “glory of following things we can’t explain.”[iv] That is what Christ the King offers us today – the opportunity to follow things we cannot always explain. Jesus invites us share our ponderings and struggles with knowing this king who is sometimes counterintuitive. He invites us to relinquish our angst about the ambiguity, and instead to celebrate the King of ambiguity. Amen.

I must admit, the Pope’s visit to the United States last week was awesome. Though I have been happy for the Roman Catholic Church since Pope Francis was elected, last week I realized his witness is good for all Christians. Too often people professing to be Christian make Christians look bad. Their hatred and exclusion in no way reflects the love and inclusion expressed by Jesus Christ. But not Pope Francis. He continues to challenge all of us to get back to the work Jesus gave us to do – to love and care for the poor, disenfranchised, and unjustly treated. He beckons us toward lives of making peace and justice. In essence, he reminds us to live as Christ called us to live. And in starkly obvious ways, he reminded us that Jesus was not a Democrat or a Republican. In fact, Jesus made, and continues to make, everyone uncomfortable. Pope Francis did the same thing. Though we all loved what he did for the Church and Christians in general last week, he likely made each of us feel uncomfortable at some point during his visit. But I think we could all respect that he was trying to get us back to our true identity – he is a Christian who made us proud, not embarrassed, to be Christians.

Coming off the high of the Pope’s visit, I attended a funeral mass this week at the local Roman Catholic Church. I was there to support a parishioner who had lost his mother (a Roman Catholic). I wore my collar, but sat in the pew. I prayed with the priest, cried with the family, and reverenced during the Eucharist. But when the Eucharist was distributed, I stayed in my seat. To his credit, the priest did not disinvite any non-RC attendees. But he did not actively invite them either. So instead of risking offense, I stayed in my seat, as I have been well-trained by many other RC priests that I am not to receive Eucharist as a non-RC. I knew the moment would come and I was mentally prepared to stay in that seat. But I must admit, my heart ached in that moment. I felt a sharp pain in my chest as others walked around me to go forward for the heavenly meal. For all the unity, the love, and the excitement of last week, I realized in that moment that we have a long way to go.

Of course, that work is not limited to the Roman Catholic Church. Last week I preached about how much the Episcopal Church does its own work of excluding people – even from the Table, if you are not baptized. In fact, I remember writing a paper in my liturgics class in seminary defending the practice of limiting the Eucharist to those who are baptized. I don’t remember my argument at the time, but it was good, well-thought out, and prayerfully constructed. But sitting in that pew yesterday, not receiving the comfort of the holy meal made me rethink the whole concept of an open table. I do not really know if I am ready to make any changes right away, but the experience was a powerful lesson in the realities of constructing boundaries around the Table. I do not want anyone’s heart to hurt the way mine did yesterday. What about you? What boundaries the church has constructed make you feel conflicted? What might compel you to reconsider your position? I invite us to pray about these conflicts as a community and see where the Spirit is leading.

I have been thinking this week about the power of food. In almost all my mission trips, there was a food story. Whether I was uncertain about eating what looked like undercooked chicken in the Dominican Republic, or I was struggling with the proper way to eat the tiny bird I was given in Burma, or I was trying to swallow the freshly made tamale in Honduras when all I wanted to eat was a saltine because I was so sick – there was always a dramatic food story from each trip that led to endless jokes later. Of course there are good food stories too. There are those foods that you always eat when you visit a favorite restaurant, the foods you beg your mom to make when you visit home, or the foods whose recipes you try to master before your grandfather passes away and the magic taste is gone with him. Food is a powerful thing. There is the basic need for food for sustenance, there is the nostalgia and delight that the smell and taste of food can bring, there is the adventure of trying new and exotic foods, and there are ways in which food can be the enemy – from overeating to disordered eating. Food is the common denominator among all peoples, and in many ways, our life is centered around food. The common joke in the South is that you know a family is a good southern family if they are planning their next meal while eating the current one.

So today, when Jesus says, “Have you anything here to eat?” Jesus harnesses the power of food to do something equally powerful. In Luke’s gospel, the women have found the empty tomb and reported the news to the disbelieving disciples. Peter has confirmed the news, but the disciples remain huddled in fear. Two of those gathered have an encounter with Jesus on their walk to Emmaus, and return to the disciples to share the news. Finally, in our lesson today, Jesus appears among them. Though he offers peace to them, and tries to calm their doubts and fears, the text tells us that they are joyful, but still in disbelief and wonder. Despite the fact that the disciples have received multiple testimonies of the risen Lord and despite the fact that the same risen Lord is standing right in front of them, offering them peace and assurance and even showing his wounds as proof of his identity, the disciples just cannot get their heads around this strange new reality. And so Jesus resorts to the one power left he has to reach the disciples – the power of food. To this scared, confused, disbelieving gang of followers, Jesus says the most basic, normal question, “Have you anything here to eat?”

Who among us has not tried to use food as the great peace maker? Almost every time we go to visit family, our family anxiously asks, “What do you guys eat?” Whenever we host friends, we are careful to ask about food allergies or what kinds of foods they do not like. Pretty much every birthday party we have been to with our five-year old has served pizza and cake – because apparently, every kid likes pizza and cake. Nothing feels better than satisfied eaters around a dinner table. Once people are happily eating, the conversation flows and the laughter soon follows. Likewise, when we make the wrong food choices for a meal, the results can be disastrous. I always have loved the scene from the film, My Big Fat Greek Wedding, when the Greek girl invites her very non-Greek boyfriend to meet the family. The whole family has gathered, a pig is on the spit, food is flowing, music is playing, and the favorite Aunt comes up the boyfriend and asks him what she can serve him. The Greek girl tries to calmly and quietly explain that her boyfriend is a vegetarian. The Aunt seems confused, and so she explains that her boyfriend does not eat meat. The Aunt loudly asks, “What do you mean he doesn’t eat meat?!?” The room suddenly stops – a record scratches as the music halts, a glass drops from a stunned hand, and jaws drop as they stare at this strange boyfriend. But the Aunt, ever the gracious host, quickly affirms the boyfriend and says, “That’s okay, that’s okay. I’ll make lamb!”

Though the Aunt clearly does not comprehend the practice of being a vegetarian, she still leans on food as a way make peace. Once she has made peace, the party continues, and the family gets back to knowing the foreigner and welcoming him as family. That is because food has that power. Food can break down walls between foreigners, food can soothe old hurts, and food can help make new friends. Food has power.

Jesus seemed to know this truth. When appearances, conversations, and physical evidence cannot not seem to calm the disciples enough for them to understand what God is doing in the risen Christ, Jesus resorts back to the one thing that can transform everything. “Have you anything here to eat?” is not just a question about whether there is food in the house. His question is a disarming one – a question that not only requires the mundane work of preparing food, but also gets the disciples into a place a familiarity, comfort, and ease. In this place, gathered around the table with food, the disciples are finally put in a place where they can really hear Jesus. In fact, the text says that Jesus opens their minds to understand the scriptures. Finally, after confusion, fear, and disbelief, through the power of food comes clarity, wisdom, and direction. Jesus is able to break through, create understanding, and most importantly, commission the disciples to spread the good news to all the nations.[i]

On those mission trips, those funny food stories always led to something more powerful. That questionable chicken was procured for us because the village leaders knew how hard we had labored and they wanted to give us food to sustain us – even if it meant driving out of the way to obtain the chicken. And once we ate, the hungry villagers ate too. Those tiny birds that we panicked about in Burma were actually quite a delicacy. They are a rare treat that were painstakingly prepared by the women of the church. And though I am sure our faces betrayed our uncertainty, you could not have seen more proud looks on those women as we began to pick through those tiny bones for meat. Those mounds of fresh tamales were like a death sentence to me in Honduras. But I learned that the women of the village had pooled their money for the ingredients and had been working all day to prepare for the feast. After we ate those delicious offerings, there was great dancing and celebration as our team honored a productive week with our village hosts.

Churches understand the power of food. I still hear stories at St. Margaret’s about the progressive dinners held back in the day. Parishioners who are often quite overbooked will clear their calendars for our annual parish picnic. I have told many a friend that St. Margaret’s is the only parish I know whose Coffee Hour truly lasts an hour – sometimes more if the conversation is really hopping. Even our most recent new endeavor of providing a family-friendly worship and fellowship opportunity is centered around food – Pasta, Pray, and Play. Churches understand the power of food to bring people together, to enrich relationships, and to create new connections.

But probably most important for the Church is the power of food to heal, reconcile, and embolden. The Eucharistic Meal is the primary way we use the power of food. For those of us who have been receiving communion our whole lives, we sometimes forget the power of that simple meal. I remember, at one of the services when one of our young people received his first communion, the look of consternation on his face when he first tasted the dry wafer. I do not know what he was expecting, but I can tell you, that wafer shocked his senses. That is what our Eucharistic Meal is supposed to do. We spend an hour pondering and praying about what God is doing in our lives, we confess our failures to live as faithful servants of God, we reconcile with our brothers and sisters in the peace, and then we stand humbly before God and receive a meal that restores us and makes us whole. That single meal gives us the peace and the power to get back out into the world and try again – try again to be the witnesses Jesus invites us to be today. That is the power of this food – this meal can transform us and enable us to be faithful witnesses in the world. When Jesus says today, “Have you anything here to eat?” we say emphatically, yes, we do. Amen.

The dinner table is where sacred things happen. The dinner table is where food is served that can satisfy a hunger, can heal an ailing body, can delight the senses, and can invoke a nostalgia like no other. The dinner table is where stories are told, days are recounted, prayers are said, and laughter is had. The dinner table is where places are set, dishes are passed, plates are cleared, and remnants are cleaned. The dinner table is the host of all things mundane – like that frozen meal you threw together before you ran off to the next thing; and the dinner table is the host of all things momentous – like that gloriously planned and executed Thanksgiving meal that you hosted for your friends and family. Because the dinner table can do all these things, the dinner table becomes the place in our home where sacred things happen – a holy site for one’s everyday and one’s extraordinary moments.

The dinner table where Jesus and his disciples gathered for that Last Supper was no different. They had gathered at table hundreds of times in the three years they had spent together. There had been learning and laughter, stories and questions, arguments and celebrations. In many ways, all of these things seem to happen in the course of this one night during the Last Supper. Jesus and the disciples are likely chatting up a storm, talking about the days events, when Jesus does something extraordinary. He gets up, takes off his outer robes, and washes the feet of his disciples. This kind of event is unheard of. Hosts and well-respected teachers do not wash others feet; that task was assigned to a household slave.[i] And some of the midrashic commentary suggests that not even a Hebrew slave was expected to perform such a menial task. Instead, the slave might bring out a bowl of water, but the guest would wash his own feet.[ii] So of course, a lively debate ensues with Peter, who does not understand what is happening. Jesus washes Peter’s feet anyway – and washes Judas’ feet – before returning to that dinner table to explain what he has done. He goes on to explain that not only will he die soon, but also that he expects a certain behavior after he is gone – that they love one another.

That is the funny thing about dinner tables. They can bring out the most sacred and holy of conversations. The dinner table is where one tells his family that he has terminal cancer. The dinner table is where one tells her best friend that she lost her job and has no idea what she is going to do. The dinner table is where the young couple announces that that they lost their pregnancy. The dinner table is where the college student tells his parents that he is dropping out of school. We tell these awful, scary stories at the dinner table because we know that the table can handle them. The table is where we gather with those who we care about and is therefore the place where we can share both the joys of life and also the really hard stuff of life. Though our table may have never hosted a dinner as beautiful as one of the tables Norman Rockwell could paint, our table is still a sacred place that can hold all the parts of us – the good, the bad, the beautiful, and the ugly. We can share the awfulness of life there because we know that those gathered can handle it, and can carry us until we can be back at the table laughing some day.

What I love about our celebration of this day is that all of those things – the good, the bad, the beautiful, and the ugly – were present that night with Jesus and his disciples. So yes, earlier in the evening, there probably is a raucous conversation. The disciples are gathered at the table, in all their imperfection: those who love Jesus with a beautiful innocence and those who greedily hope to be at Jesus’ left and right hand; those who humbly understand Jesus and those who want Jesus to victoriously claim his Messianic power; those who profess undying faithfulness (even though they will fail to be faithful) and those who actively betray Jesus. At that table Jesus not only talks about how to be agents of love, Jesus also shows them how to love. On this last night – this last night before the storm of Jesus’ trial, crucifixion, and death – a sacred moment happens at the dinner table. And though we do not hear the story tonight, we also know that Jesus then breaks the bread and offers the wine, instituting the sacrament of Holy Communion.

We know the rest of the story. The disciples, who still do not really understand Jesus fully, muddle their way through footwashing and Holy Communion. Then those same dense disciples sleep their way through Jesus’ last prayers. One of those disciples becomes violent when a soldier tries to seize Jesus. And eventually, most of the disciples betray and abandon Jesus altogether. To this unfaithful, dimwitted, scared group, Jesus offers a sacred moment at the dinner table, inviting them into the depths of his soul and a pathway to our God: and encourages them to love anyway.

Our own Eucharistic table is not unlike that dinner table with Jesus. Tonight, we too will tell stories, sing, and laugh. We too will wash feet in humility, embarrassment, and servitude. We too will hear the sobering invitation to the Eucharistic meal, and will walk our unworthy selves to the rail to receive that sacrificial body and blood. We too will argue with God in our prayers, pondering what God is calling us to do in our lives and resisting that call with our whole being. We too will lean on Jesus, longing for the comfort that only Jesus can give. And we too will hear Jesus’ desperate plea for us to also be agents of love – not just to talk about love, or profess love, but to show love as Jesus has shown love to us.

In this way, our Eucharistic table is not unlike the dinner table in your own home. Our Eucharistic table has hosted countless stories, arguments, and bouts of laugher. Our Eucharistic table has witnessed great sadness and great joy. Our Eucharistic table feeds us, even when we feel or act unworthily. And our Eucharistic table charges us to go out into the world, being the agents of love who are willing to wash the feet of others – even those who betray us and fail us. This Lent, we have been praying Eucharistic Prayer C. In that prayer, the priest prays, “Deliver us from the presumption of coming to this Table for solace only, and not for strength; for pardon only, and not for renewal.”[iii] This Eucharistic table, like our own dinner table, can handle all of us – all our failings, sinfulness, and brokenness. This table can fill us up with joy, forgiveness, and peace. This table can be a place where we find belonging, identity, and security. But this table is also meant to build us up – to give us strength and renewal for doing the work God has given us to do – to love others as Christ loves us. Sacred things happen at this table. Those sacred things happen so that we can do sacred things in the world for our God. Amen.